


Someone to Lose

by dunneltag879



Series: Disassociated Love [1]
Category: DCU (Comics), Red Robin (Comics), Superboy (Comics)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Tim drake is going insane, Tim needs a hug, Tim’s seeing things, poor Tim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:22:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27095752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dunneltag879/pseuds/dunneltag879
Summary: The Kryptonian smiled, raising his glass slightly, Tim returned the gesture.“You, Tim drake, are a fucking tragedy,” he sung out with a smile, their glasses clinked, and they drank.OrTim spends one last reckless night in his family home and after a drink of two starts seeing the people he’s lost over the past years.
Relationships: Tim Drake/Kon-El | Conner Kent
Series: Disassociated Love [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2002585
Comments: 2
Kudos: 47





	Someone to Lose

“Blood son my ass” Tim hissed as the door opened with a click. The manor was quiet, it was delicate and unloved, and for those reasons he knew for a fact nothing had changed. Maybe he was dreaming, maybe Janet and Jack were just on another expedition. 

No, this time they weren’t coming back, instead long gone, forgotten and already starting to deteriorate in their oh so lovely tombs. 

The manor would be out of the drake name by the end of the month. He’d allow it to be sold fully furnished and he’d take only his parents belongings with him. Tim decided he’d donate prizes they’ve brought home from expeditions to museums, the clothes would be mostly donated, jewelry pawned, and the rest? Maybe a nice storage container. 

Believe it or not, but time apart from the toxic duo was relieving. Tim couldn’t see the abuse till their passing, but now he felt like he could breath. It felt almost similar to the rush he first got as robin. 

Right...robin. A lost title. Dead, just like the many other special things and people in his life. All dead and buried in the back of his mind, people and things he once cherished, unlike Janet and Jack. 

No more isolation, no more punches or slaps, no more mind controls and manipulation. He was free, free of parental harm and supervision, maybe he’d throw a party? He didn’t know who he’d invite. The only ones he’d care to party with were long gone, his choices in people seemed to be instead dwindling.

“That’s why we make more friends, Timothy,” he mocked his mother’s voice. Only, in the ways she meant it, it wasn’t to make friends, just slaves and people to do ones bidding, mere pawns. It was tempting, too, maybe manipulation and abuse were somehow in his DNA, maybe he was more like them than he thought. 

The boy plopped down on the sofa in the sitting room, stiff, barely used just like the rest of the house. He glanced around, noticing the way the doorways arched and the carpet caved in under the legs of the opposite sofa and the million dollar coffee table in front of him. There was a bar in the corner, still fully stocked with his mother’s champagne and his father’s brandy, when was the last time it had been touched? Silence settled in then. It was cold and brutal, yet comforting in a nostalgic way of his adolescence. 

Tim felt a sudden sense of pride then. He’d survived. He was on his own, all alone, no longer a puppet to dead Janet, no longer a punching bag to Jack. “I won,” he stated to the house, running a hand through his overgrown hair, a smile curving at the corners of his lips. It was victory at last, he could almost taste it on his lips, cracked and brittled. It was the sour type of victory, the kind felt after revenge. They were dead after all, and the part of him that did love them, felt guilty for not doing more, but out of all the loss he’d faced lately, maybe these deaths he could alter into a slight win, rather than a typical lose. 

“I won,” he restated, this time standing up and strutting over to the bar. He pulled out a bottle of champagne from the mini fridge along with a long glass. He’s done so all the many times before, pouring his mother a flute of champagne and his father a shot of brandy, only this time it wasn’t for them, and the alcohol wouldn’t be accompanied with loud fights and more often than not Jack taking it out on his son. He took his glass, champagne poured nearly to the brim. 

“To the drakes!” The teen exclaimed with a grin, the liquid sloshing around as he raised the glass to no one. Tim took a glance around the room, giving each piece of furniture, wall, and conversation piece a lively and proud look before he allowed himself to continue, “may we all burn in hell.” 

The alcohol was cold down his throat, only it didn’t burn the way brandy did. It was smooth, flavorful and bubbly. Was this the taste of victory? It was for sure was the taste of celebratory. 

When it came down to it, though, Tim knew for a fact that out of the two, he certainly was more like Janet, that snake. She was always the worst, always had been his greatest fear. He took down bad guys, aliens, utterly insane criminals and yet, Janet drake was the scariest thing he’d ever encountered. Being more like Jack though, was easier, he wasn’t at all complex the way Janet was. Jack was a simple man, a business man of the morning and an angry drunk come evening. It was a softer role, because Janet was almost impossible to figure out. Tim figured her out. He was a detective, after all, or maybe that was just his inner Janet talking. He knew how to play people because he himself was played. From her, he picked up manipulation and guilt tactics, using most rather unconsciously.

Maybe he’d allow it, to be like her, at least for just the night. He’d be a snob, he’d be dramatic, maybe he would even show off in public. He’d dress up, drink as much champagne as he desired, and just to spite her he’d do it all whilst hard rock played, accompanied by bad singing. 

He had connected all the speakers, fitting as a full surround sound system for the house, loud music blaring, specifically The Clash. 

“Shareef don’t like it,  
Rock the Casbah, rock the Casbah!” 

His singing seemed more like a scream but he didn’t mind, and the thought of how raw his throat would be come tomorrow was something he hasn’t even pondered up yet. He was having far too much fun, his shirt now off as he tried on each and every one of his mother’s luxurious fur coats, feeling the authentic animal fur against his bare chest. 

“Oh, Timothy my darling, what ever have you done?”

Tim whipped around, and much like the way the house shook, he wasn’t sure if it was the effects of alcohol or if this all was actually happening. Somehow, though, Tim found himself far from all fear. 

“Janet,” he snickered, her eyes narrowing at him. She sat across the room on yet another stiff couch, looking as strict and yet as perfect as always. Tim turned back to the vanity in front of him, sitting down finally as he peered around at the makeup. 

“Don’t you dare,” she hissed, watching him as he reached for a perfume. 

“Hm, Paris?” He turned the bottle in his hand, keeping eye contact with the deceased woman in the mirror. He raised the bottle to his neck, spraying slightly. He copied the notion of his wrists and chest as well, his smirk growing each time he sprayed. “Mm, smells divine” Tim mocked as he placed the perfume back down. 

The boy locked eyes with his mother again, the glanced sour first, then softened. “How’s the grave, Janet dear?” 

“Oh Timothy, darling, where is this sudden confidence coming from?” She sneered back at him, to which she now noticed the way he suddenly shivered in her presence.  
Janet stood up, she trailed her way across the room, passing her own unwrinkled bed over to the vanity were her beloved son sat.  
“Timmy dear? You’ve always been a mama’s boy, haven’t you?” She asked him sweetly, jerking his chin right then up to look her in the eyes.

Tim stared up, his heart racing, he could feel her sharp nails pressing into his pale skin like little knifes. The only question was, how was he able to feel her? How was a dead woman to make contact with the living? He may have even wondered where Jack was. 

Tim didn’t respond to her, he just stared, afraid that if he did speak it’d only make it more real. 

Janet glared down at him once more, Tim shrunk in his seat. “You’re becoming one of us, Timothy, a true Drake,” she smiled proudly as she scaled her fingers across his cheek. She never had been the most tender mother, had she? “Have you found a nice girl yet?” She questioned then, still not getting many responses from her son. 

‘She’s dead’ Tim wanted to tell her, but he settled instead for a small head shake instead.  
He shot up, pulling away from her tough grasp where he found himself up against the wall yet, free from her act. “I’ll never be like you,” Tim argued, but he couldn’t help but swallow as Janet took a step forward. She reached out for him and he swatted her hand away, then took a step back. No more, no longer would he allow her to have the upper hand. 

“Timothy...how could you be so cruel to your mother?” Janet looked hurt, which forced Tim to push aside any guilt resulting from it. 

Tim swallowed, taking a few large steps towards the door where he finally found his voice, “Fuck you. I hope you and father rot in hell!” 

Janet rushed forward, raising her hand as she got close to him. So, Tim turned his head. He’d wait for it, wait for the familiar feeling of her hand against his cheek. It shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did, he’s taken stab wounds and chemical burns of the next level and yet, a single slap from his mother felt like agonizing death. 

The sound of the hard slap rang throughout the manor, somehow even over the loud music. When he turned back though, Janet was gone, and Tim, after taking a few moments to collect himself in the doorway, made his way down the staircase. 

“Parents, am I right?” A soft voice huffed at the end of the stairs. Tim studied ocean blues and silky blondes, and of course the everlasting color or eggplant. 

“Steph,” he gasped, scrambling his way down the stairs till he reached her. Tim allowed her hands to cup his face, and his fingers found her soft curls. “I miss you,” he spoke hoarsely, leaning in to kiss her, then nothing. 

Steph had one hand on his shoulder now, shaking her head. Tim allowed himself to pull away but he stared in utter confusion.  
“You don’t love me, not like you think,” she whispered to him, admiring the fur coat he still wore, she smiled. 

“What do you mean? Of course I love you, god, I feel like I wait for you to walk into my room every night, or to run into you on patrol. You’re just...you’re never there,” he explained quietly, her head still shook. 

“No,” 

“No?” 

“You wait for him, you long for him,” she stated simply, and not in a way of hurt but rather a way of understanding. 

“What? What are you talking about? Who?” Tim bit his lip, looking worried. Steph only rolled her eyes at him, giving him a ‘you know who’ type of look. He shook his head, taking glances around the room that surrounded the stairwell. “Kon? Sure, he’s my best friend, but I’m in love with you. He and I, it’s not..” he trailed, Steph lifted an eyebrow a him. She hasn’t said anything to him now for the last five minutes, still Tim felt pressured and like she was eating away at him. 

Tim looked down at his feet, the room felt colder now, with every new realization he felt like he might just explode. “Really?” He looked up to ask but Steph was already gone, and Tim found himself alone yet again on the stairs. 

“Steph?” Tim called as he made his way down the last few steps. He took a glimpse into the hallway beyond the staircase—nothing, he looked in closets and rooms, back upstairs and in bathrooms, under beds, she wasn’t anywhere in sight. When he walked back downstairs and reentered the living room, Tim’s eyes were glossy and his head hung low. 

“S-Steph..?” He croaked, just one last time. The air was colder now, he could sense it all settling in, lonely and heartless. It felt the same as it had before only, with even the littlest taste of company crushed his soul upon its disappearance. So, instead of facing said problems in the way he used to, Tim instead curled up in a ball on the stiff couch, hugging the fur coat to him dearly as he closed his eyes.

The cost still reeked of Janet, of cigarettes and perfume, and snake or not, any company right now would be better than this, even yelling or nagging. 

“Aw, c’mon now, Rob, don’t get all sappy on me,” Tim’s heart raced, he opened his eyes slowly. Was it? Could it be? He turned his head, facing over to the bar from where he heard the voice. 

“K-Kon?” He stammered, Kon nodded at him. 

Kon fumbled at the bar, twirling a champagne glass in his fingers. “What’s got you so blue, wonder boy?” He questioned, already grabbing another glass before pouring leftover champagne in both. 

“I...I’m not quite sure? I miss you, Kon, you and Bart, Steph, mom, dad...Bruce..” he paused at his own mention of the billionaire. After all, Tim wasn’t totally convinced he was dead. Kon was, though. So was Steph, and Bart, and Janet and Jack. If he could just save one of them...

Kon was looking down at him now, holding a glass of champagne in his outstretched hand. Tim took it, and Kon sat down beside him. 

The Kryptonian smiled, raising his glass slightly, Tim returned the gesture.  
“You, Tim drake, are a fucking tragedy,” he sung out with a smile, their glasses clinked, and they drank. 

Tim felt woozy with the mix of drunkenness and disassociation. The fact that Kon was here was beyond him, and maybe that’s why he leaned into him, laying his head against his chest. 

“My clone boy,” Tim whispered softly, biting his lip gently. He felt tricked, and maybe that was okay, sure, it was. He was tricked, but maybe being fooled like so wasn’t such a bad thing. So when Kon wrapped his arms around him and set their glasses aside, Tim knew he was right, then. In his arms, Tim felt comfort and love, he felt things he hadn’t felt in over a year and a half now, maybe not even ever. He was home, happy and content in Kon’s strong arms. Maybe he could just...

Tim raised his head, staring up a his clone, who stared just as lovingly back at him. He raised his hand up to touch Kon’s cheek, pulling him further down till their lips connected. 

Much like the hug, the kiss was soft, only to deepen when Tim turned slightly and straightened up. 

Only when he could feel Kon smile did he melt, because it was unlike anything he’d experienced before, because for some odd reason, the decision to kiss Kon was the only thing he’d never had to think twice about. Tim was 100% sure that was what he wanted and so he did it. 

“You...you kissed me back..” His cheeks were flushed when they pulled away, raven hair a mess as usual. 

Kon blinked, looking at the robin as if he were a big jigsaw puzzle. “Of course I did, that’s what you wanted, yes?” The Superboy raised his eyebrow, and Tim’s heart had never beat so fast as it did then. 

“You’re...you’re not real, are you?” Tim sighed, crashing back into the cushions on the couch. 

“Sorry, mystery boy,” Kon brushed Tim’s bangs out of his eyes softly, a slight frown on his face. 

“God, I miss you so much,” the shorter boy quivered, letting out a soft sniffle. Kon only gave a nod, allowing him to continue.  
“You loved Cassie, not me,” he reminded himself, feeling Kon’s hands running softly along the far coat.

“Sure, but, you were with Steph, and I’m afraid you didn’t even realize this till now, right?” His words were true. Tim knew that. He had been head over heels for the blonde before her death. And only best friends with the clone prior to his. 

“I know, I know...” Tim sat up, falling into Kon’s arms again, he felt himself even be lifted into his lap. “Just stay, please? Don’t leave like Steph did, I just want to be held,” Tim muttered, his eyes growing heavy.

And so the boy was held throughout the night by his imagination, the warmth of a dead kryptonian instead of a blanket. 

Though, when he awoke, Tim found himself all alone, surrounded by just one empty champagne bottle and a deathly headache. 

“Kon?” He called sleepily, wishing just one more time to experience the feeling of the clone pressing a kiss to his hairline as sleep took hold of him.

He was gone, though, not to be coming back. Was seeing him a sense of closure? Maybe, or maybe it was just his mind enforcing the fact that Timothy Drake was indeed, going fucking mad. 

Either way, the encounter only further drove him on his quest to clone his friend, eager this time to feel such tender touch once more.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! I really enjoyed writing this one it was just a small idea that I turned into all this!!
> 
> Tumblr: klariwitch


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